


Portrait

by varibean



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, he's gay too, i'm tired and wanted to write, just a little test piece that i might use to make something bigger but rn, that's not mentioned but, this also hasn't been proof read so yeah, trans!varian, well not directly but she's mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 11:51:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18894067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varibean/pseuds/varibean
Summary: The people in your village who knew your mother constantly tell you about how much you look like her: your eyes, your nose, your hair. They call you a ‘pretty little thing’ as if it were a compliment.





	Portrait

The people in your village who knew your mother constantly tell you about how much you look like her: your eyes, your nose, your hair. They call you a ‘pretty little thing’ as if it were a compliment. You’ve only ever seen one portrait of her-eyes looking down at you, the paint on her nose smudged, her hair in a bun. Every time you look at the cracking canvas you wonder how on earth anyone could ever compare you to her.

When you get a bit older your dad offers you a chest full of her clothes. He tells you that she kept them in hopes that one day you could find use in them. Her hand-me-downs from her own youth fit weirdly against your skin, too tight in some places and too lose in others. Your hips aren’t as wide, and the corset pushes your near non-existent chest upwards in a way that makes you want to claw out your own body tissue. When your dad sees you-stumbling and shuffling against the skirts-he nearly cries. You’ve never seen him that emotional in your life.

“You look just like her.”

And when he says that you decide that maybe the clawing feeling is worth it.

A year or so later and you hate yourself. There’s no difference between the portrait and the mirror. You keep your eyes downcast and half lidded, your nose always has a bit of powder on it to hide your imperfections, and your hair is always in a bun. Every morning when you get up there’s a struggle; the skirts, the corset, the powder, the hair pins. There is more to your chest to push up now and the clawing feeling is even more dominate in your mind. It’s all an uphill battle that continues to go up hill, the peak a promise forever out of reach. When you go downstairs you dad tells you that you look beautiful, every morning, without fail. He gives you a kiss on the forehead and for a moment the peak is in sight, the end goal is near, and you can almost reach it with the tips of your yearning fingers.

Then your dad heads off to the fields and you’re left alone, itching in your own skin.

There’s no big moment, no catalyst that pushes you over the edge. One day you just wake up, tired from studying your alchemical based books all night. You don’t want to deal with the skirts or the hair or the corset or the powder, so you don’t. Instead you go downstairs in your sleep shirt and a pair of trousers that your father got you for horseback riding. He looks taken aback when he sees you, but he still calls you beautiful and gives you a kiss on his way out. It feels stiffer, less genuine.

You do not have your father’s pride right then, but you have your dignity.

Things happen bit by bit. You open your eyes wider and look upwards when you walk. You stare directly at people when you talk to them and it makes them uncomfortable. You don’t back down with your shining eyes, adamant in their resolution. One day you fall out of a tree and hit your face on a branch. You’re mostly fine but you break your nose and it heals crooked. You don’t put powder on the bruise. You stop wearing a bun but without it your hair gets in your way, too long and thick and wavy. The scissors make quick work of it and suddenly all of you feels lighter.

The old corset gives you an idea one day. You sew something similar but out of a more breathable fabric. Instead of sucking in your middle, you wear it against your chest. The clawing feeling goes away just a little bit.

By the end of the year the only clothing you still wear from your mother is an apron you found at the very bottom of the chest your father gave you.

No one tells you that you look just like your mother. There is a difference between the portrait and the mirror. You know who you are for the first time in your life. You aren’t a replacement for the hole your mother left behind, a proxy of the woman she once was.

You are Varian Flamel Quirinson and you are _not_ your mother’s daughter.

**Author's Note:**

> so i wanted to write something with varian being trans but i wasn't sure what and then this happened. i also wanted to experiment a bit with writing so let's see how this plays out.


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